shifting points
by Anrheithwyr
Summary: She is the sly, mysterious girl from District 5. She is the Fox girl, she is Foxface. She is dead, she is a tribute, she is invisible. She is smart, she is hunted, she is elusive. She was a daughter, a sister, a friend-and now, she is going to die. Everything has changed-and the Fox girl is no fighter, but she is smart. If only being smart was enough to keep her alive.
1. our final days shine so bright

_**I do not own the Hunger Games, nor do I own any recognisable characters. These are the property of Suzanne Collins. **_

….

I wake to the sounds of a fist knocking on my front door, and I stifle a scream, turning over in bed, feeling like gagging as my stomach clenches tightly. Tears spring to my eyes as I choke on air, a cry for help springing to my lips.

Although I know it is nothing of importance, I still can't help but imagine the men outside, dressed in white, tall enough to loom over me as one of them yells in a loud voice.

Peacekeepers-the rude men who keep my District in check using fear and their batons with which they beat into submission all who speak against them.

All I can see is a group of them barging into my house, banging on the door to be let in, and the screaming, screaming, _screaming _as they dragged us outside. I can feel the nipping cold of a dark, chilly night, wearing nothing but a thin nightgown that had once been my cousin's.

Peacekeepers at my doorway, come to drag Papa and Auntie Marsa away for their planned executions-we have come for Mommy and Daddy, for good measure, because the whole family is made up of traitors, but there is no reason to kill innocent children just yet-that can be left for Reaping Day.

Except there are no Peacekeepers, I have to remind myself, and they aren't there to take my family away. The Peacekeepers have left my family alone, ever since my grandfather and aunt and my mother's executions had occurred four years earlier.

I can still remember it with startling clarity, the tall men with all-white uniforms coming into our house, barging in and demanding to know where Hansen and Marsa Crossley are, because it is time, it is time for us to die.

I shake my head, trying to keep the memories at bay. I have no purpose remembering things like that, not when I have work to do in a few hours, not when I have to do my job correctly and with a steady mind so I can bring home food to my brother and sister.

After all, my brother and I are the only ones left who can work, the only ones who can do anything to save our family now.

"I'll answer it!" I hear my brother call, and there are the sounds of him moving to the door.

I can only continue to huddle in the bed, feeling like I have once again just proven myself useless-my brother knows, he recognises that I am too afraid to answer the door.

And I don't want to be the scared little girl that we all saw-I want to be able to get up and answer the damn door, I want to be able to just forget what have happened. I want…actually, I want a lot of things that I will probably never have.

For starters, I want enough food to eat at meals.

Kestrel, my older brother, won't let Clarisse or I take Tesserae-it is too dangerous, he says, it will only increase our odds of dying. _Dying, _he says, instead of saying the world he really meant: _it increases your odds of being Reaped. _After all, what is the difference, in the end?

But what kind of world is it where the word _death _holds less meaning than the word _Reaping_? When have we all become so afraid of one little word that should have meant nothing to us?

And hardly anyone in District 5 takes the option for Tesserae, anyway; there are hardly enough kids for a proper Reaping anyway, as though the entire District have, in one last stance against Capitol, attempted to have as few children as possible.

Kestrel claims that the distinct lack of children comes from the radiation that have existed since the beginning of District 5-it seems to coat the District in a never-ending layer of permanence, leading to a higher rate of miscarriages, stillborn, and cancer amongst the populace.

My family of three children is already an oddity amongst my neighbours, and the fact that the three of us have been living alone on our family's property is even stranger-the other kids on our street stayed away from the Crossley house as much as possible.

Not that we mind too terribly much-we kept mostly to ourselves, and now that Clarisse is the only one left in school, Kestrel, Clarisse, and I hardly ever speak to anyone else in our neighbourhood other than the occasional trip to the market to pick up some food from the slim variety of different breads and produce.

But at least we don't in some place like District 4, which is all water and the smell of fish. At least I am not from District 12, where it is says that coal dust covered everything-the people, the food, the sun. At least here in District 5, we aren't overpopulated.

I glance out the window, seeing bright sunshine spill into the room, and I move my hand to block it, wishing that it isn't summertime-I hate it, hate that the Peacekeepers dragged out the television screens and checked to make sure everyone is tuned in.

After all, we don't want anyone to miss the choosing and slaughter of twenty-three children.

It is my least favourite day of the entire year-Reaping Day-especially now that Clarisse is old enough for her name to be drawn.

District 5 is a tiny place of just over two thousand, at best. Nearly everyone is involved, in some way or another, with the power plants in the northern edge of town. I myself work in maintenance, a belt always around my hips, and a hammer in my hands.

There is no music in District 5, no parties. We do not celebrate, not for weddings or birthdays or even for making it another year without being Reaped.

The people of District 5 aren't positive people, nor are we a close community. Doors are locked at night, and windows are closed.

I don't blame them-I myself don't trust anyone else in District 5, certainly not after what have happened four years ago.

After all, Peacekeepers can come barging into your house at any moment, or robbers desperately seeking a bite of food.

I had once returned home to find that the tiny generator we have to cook our food have been stolen, and we haven't been able to buy a new one since, not when the merchants in our tiny market regularly raise the prices so high that even the Peacekeepers struggle to pay for their wares.

District 5 is the sort of place where a sour look, a poorly timed comment, or even just a stumble can get you into trouble. I have seen girls who were attacked simply for wearing a bright colour; I have seen men get into fights because of disagreements over where to walk down the road.

District 5 is not a great place to raise a child, especially when I am still little more than a child myself, but it is my home. It is where I was born, and it was where I was raised, and if there is any sense of mercy in this cruel world that I was thrust into, District 5 is where I will die, fifty or sixty years from now.

Kestrel had quit school a year after the events with the Peacekeeper-he has even gotten a job as a security officer at the power plant, and often doesn't come home until four in the morning, and sleeps until his job requires him to begin the same routine again at noon.

I followed after him when I turned thirteen, signing up for a position in maintenance, because I am good with my hands, and I like to know how things worked. Our situation is not exactly rare-often, most students drop out of school by the time they are fifteen, because we are raised knowing how to fix things and how to make the plant run.

That is, after all, our only job in life, making things run properly to provide power for the rest of Panem. Our entire lives wrapped up in a job that killed you so slowly. Many of my friend's mothers, fathers, and grandparents had succumbed to various illnesses over the years-cancer, radiation poisioning. We are a district of skinny, barely alive people.

Despite this, I still can't help but love my job in the factory, running around with a hammer in my hand, offering assistance where needed. I can fix pipes and metres. I can repairs walls and unclog toilets and make the lights turn back on. At least at the plant, I am useful; my job also helps my desire to know as much as I can about the world around me.

Cogs turning, machines humming-how does all of that produce energy for the Capitol and the twelve districts? How does it all work, those giant metal creatures that bring light to my house, as well as the houses all the way in District 12?

I read a lot in what little downtime I have, big old books about whatever I can conceivably find. I read history books and books about growing food; books about different times of plants in the wild, and books about how cars ran, even though I have never seen an actual car in my entire life.

I read, because it keeps me sane.

After all, there isn't much else to do in our tiny two-roomed house. We have the bedroom where the Clarisse and I, and where the heater and stove is, and then there is the tiny bathroom and living room; that is it, my entirety of possessions is small enough to fit into one drawer.

When I was a little girl, my family and I had lived closer to the plants-I can still remember it, the houses that smelled of oil at all hours, the lights that were always flickering, the nervous way Mom would watch Dad leave each morning, praying for him to come back in the night. Kes and I would wait up as well, lying in bed until he came home, pretending we were asleep when he came to kiss us good-night.

Eventually, when she fell pregnant with _the baby_, Mom had convinced Dad that it was safer to move farther away from the plants, in case something happened. It is better to live in a smaller house and at least not die of radiation poisoning, the way my grandmother and cousin have.

(She had lost the baby anyway, a child that would have been my mother's third girl. They buried my dead sister's corpse in the District's graveyard, her only marker the year and our family's name. My brother, who had been eight when our sister died, still spoke of her sometimes, in his nightmares, mumbling the name that had been picked out for her: _Finch._)

Moving hadn't been enough, ironically-Mom had still died, even though we now live far away from the power plants. Mom has died despite all of her precautions, and Dad has disappeared. Is he dead? In jail? An Avox, those mute servants of the Capitol? I don't know-I haven't seen him in four years, and I doubt I'd even want to anymore.

In the town square, the bell that alerts the beginning of the work and school day rings, and immediately, there is the sound of two thousand people getting up and heading off to complete their usual daily routine. We are very good at keeping order and working by a schedule.

I sigh, running a brush through my messy curls, wishing that tomorrow isn't Reaping Day. Work is complicated enough without constantly thinking about the fact that tomorrow, I might die. I don't want to consider the notion that, tomorrow, there will be two less mouths to feed in District 5.

I hear the sounds of my brother and sister saying good-bye, as Kestrel begins preparing to crash on his pile in the corner once more, and Clarisse starts heading off to school. Clarisse, who is only twelve, but is a tough little thing with long auburn hair and a friendly smile. I love my sister, who has grown up, it seems, even faster than I have.

I do not want to see her die. Not in the Games, not like that.

We are not a District of winners-we are a District of corpses lining the street, reminders of our failures. District 5 has hailed exactly three winners since the games began-two males and a female, all of whom live walled up in the Victor's Village, with the lights turned off in an effort to shut off the outside world. They hardly ever come out, and I sometimes wonder what nightmares they wake up.

I recall Hallery Gais, who have been the Victor-the only female-for District 5 back during the 68th Hunger Games, who Clarisse reminds me of in a way. They are both so fragile looking, but fierce underneath the scared little girl. Hallery Gais had been only twelve when she was selected, but no one have stepped up for her. No one had offered to take her place-no one had yelled "No, wait, don't send that little girl off to die."

After all, who is crazy enough to offer up their own life in exchange for another?

But Hallery had apparently been tougher than she looked-or, at least smarter. She had climbed trees taller than anything I have ever seen, hiding in the snowy mountains until the skin of a slaughtered wolf, her very first kill. It is a miracle, people says, but really, it is just a matter of kill or be killed, and Hallery had decided she liked life a little bit better than the alternative.

Hallery had gone under some sort of transformation during my time participating in the Games. She had grown leaner and stronger, but something have changed about her. She hadn't gone crazy, like some Tributes, but I can still remember my nine year old self being intimidated by that young girl on the screen, who had gone on to murder her dwindling opponents with something akin to bloodlust.

Hallery is still better than either of the other two Mentors, her male companions. There is the oldest, Dev Wyer, who won the 33rd Hunger Games, and now lives in strict isolation. No one has seen him in twenty years-not since he stabbed his own wife and then locked himself away. They say he lives in total darkness except for when he is dragged out for the Games.

The other Victor is Jean Arvar, who is a lunatic and a drunk. I have seen him around town before, a fifty year old man who mumbles to himself and drinks whiskey and rum all day, chasing pretty young girls through the streets until he slumps on a street corner, passed out until the next time, when he wakes up invigorated for another day at the wineries.

There isn't a lot of respect to be earned as a Tribute in District 5, considering one of the mentors is a drunkard and the other two are possibly off in the head. We are not a District of winners, and it fills me with fear just imagining my name being called, my scrap of paper being plucked from the glass bowl. I have no desire to die.

But I am only entered in the pot four times this year-hopefully, the odds _are _in my favour, and I will live to see my sixteenth year.

"You're going to be late if you don't hurry, Gina!" Kestrel yells from the front door, where he had been speaking to our now departed guest, shaking me out of my thoughts of the past winners.

I glance at the clock and hurried to my feet, rushing out the front door with only a quick "See you later!" to my brother. He grunts in reply, turning over in his sleeping spot.

The road isn't as congested as it had been a few minutes ago, as the only ones left are those who are just barely going to make it to their destination, like me. The streets of District 5 are narrow and closed in, but very well organised-there are no strange side streets or backwards paths that led to gods know where. Everything is meticulously labeled and very easy to follow, which is at least helpful.

I hurry down the narrow streets, avoiding the occasional glare from passersby when I shove my way past them, scurrying past dome-headed Peacekeepers like my heels are on fire. I can't be late to work, I can't be late-_hurry! _My brain scrambles, beginning to slow as my feet pick up, carrying me thoughtlessly towards Plant Number 7.

It is a good thing I am a fast runner, making it into the entry of Plant Number 7 just before the doors are closed. The guard by the door, a friendly young man by the name of Jip smiles and waves to me as I slip in, pausing to breathe heavily.

"Cutting it a bit close, aren't you Crossley?" he calls as I grab my tool belt from the wall, twisting around as I slip it on.

It felt heavy, but familiar, sitting on my hips, and I pick the hammer up, feeling it in my hands. I love my job-I feel comfortable here, I feel safe here.

_Useful._

"I made it, didn't I, Jip?" I reply, settling the hammer back in its holster on my belt, pulling my bright red hair up into a ponytail, per regulations that had been instituted since before I was born, supposedly because a young woman had accidentally gotten her long hair caught in a fan and died. "Not late, not dead."

"Not yet, at least." Jip says, laughing, but I only roll my eyes at his joke, walking off to receive my instructions for the day. Jip is nice enough, on the surface, but I have seen him drag people out of the plant for any manner of reasons. He is friendly on the outside-but he is ruthless deep down, trained to be so by the Peacekeepers.

Everything is well-organized in Plant Number 7; worker's daily requirements are handed out on a slip of paper that we have to keep on us at all times, and they have to be completed before I can check out for the day. If that meant staying at work until five in the morning, I will be required to stay until it is finished-a prospect I have faced many times before.

I go about my day with a scattered mind, trying to focus on the leaky pipes I am meant to be fixing and de-rusting, but the only think I can think about is the hours, quickly ticking away until Reaping Day tomorrow. It seems to consume my every thought, taking over my mind as the time slips away, always just a little closer to the moment of decision.

Who will be picked? I wondered to myself, though, of course, no one actually knows-it is all random, to be more or less fair, the Capitol says, as long as you ignore the fact that Tesserae can end up putting you in the pot fifty or more times. But, the Capitol is so careful to remind us when someone complains, it all really just comes down to what the representative sent from the Capitol picks.

There is a pool of maybe eight hundred kids to pick from-and my name is entered four times. But….out of eight hundred kids, what, really, are the odds of one of my tightly packed pieces of paper being picked? Clarisse is entered only once, but seventeen year old Kestrel-who, as the oldest, takes on the risk that comes with applying for Tesserae-has been entered eighteen times.

I try to focus on my tasks, waving at those around me that I know, calculating in my head who here is young enough for Reaping. What are the odds that it might be one my coworkers, or a neighbour? What are the odds that it might be Kes or Clary or me?

The end of the day comes too soon for me, and I put my tools up with some reluctance, wishing I have all the time in the world to just hover here, to not go home and sleep away my remaining hours until tomorrow. I do not want it to be Reaping Day so soon, but it is time to go home.

Jip is gone, replaced by a much sterner, surly-faced girl with tan skin and a pink, shiny scar that covers the right side of her face, making her easily recognisable.

She is only a few years older than Kestrel, a once pretty girl named Kienne who had gotten into trouble with her father, who had supposedly attempted to murder his only child after the death of his wife.

Kienne had gotten a scar that marred her entire face from the argument, and Kienne's father had been publicly executed in the town square outside of the Justice Building.

Her situation was not as uncommon as the Peacekeepers would have people believe-parents often would snuff the life out of their children in an effort to keep them from the Reaping, or when they lost touch with reality, also a common reactant to the high levels of radiation.

I hurried past Kienne, slightly terrified of the scarred girl, who has a reputation of being violent with people she is annoyed with. I run out of the gate, not slowing down until Power Plant 7 is only a shape in the distance.

If there is one thing in the world that I can do, it is run quickly.

The solar panels on the roofs have begun to shut down for the night, as the last hours of the day dwindled into darkness, leaving the narrow streets dark. I pass by dark shapes that might have been people, though it is hard to see.

Home-I can see it in the distance, a candle in the window that means Kestrel is home early. He had probably been let out because of the Reaping tomorrow. After all, we will want everyone in attendance to be alert and aware of what happens.

Suddenly, despite my reluctance just minutes before, I can't wait to get home and have a bite to eat with my brother and sister. I can finally relax with them and calm down, maybe split the bread that I have bought at the market. After all, tomorrow is Reaping Day, and we might as well feast like kings, because who knows if the odds are in our favour?

And then I will sleep for a few hours, as time quickly whittled down to nothing. I already have a dress set aside for myself, a plain grey dress that went down to my knees. It matches the one I have given my sister, and it is simple. Inconspicuous, like me, since I don't like to stand out so much as blend in. After all, blending in doesn't get you killed for treason.

I sigh, hurrying towards my house, towards the flickering candle light in the window.

Towards my family.

….

_There is a loud knock on the door, brash and terrifying-it shake the whole house, and I wake up, mouth puckering as I am startled from my sleep. Almost immediately, my mother is clambering from our bed, pulling her jacket on to answer them. _

"_Stay here," Mommy whispered to me, just as I start to get up. She pushes me back onto the bed, one finger on my lips as I open my mouth, questions brimming inside me. "Please, Gina, don't come out of here until it is safe. Okay?"_

_I nod, scooting closer to Kestrel, wrapping my arms around my legs as Mommy walks out of the room. I can hear the faint sounds of my grandfather and aunt moving around in the other room where they slept on the floor. The door creaks, opening._

_I can hear men's voices, raising in volume when Mommy responds. I huddle on the bed, head tucked between my legs as the voices become even louder. I recognise one of the men at the door-a Peacekeeper, he has come into my classroom many times to talk about the Reaping. _

_I can't imagine why the Peacekeepers would be at my house so late, and, curious, I creep out of bed, moving towards the door, telling myself that all I want to do is take a look. That is when Aunt Marsa screams loudly, shrill like the teapot-I clap my hands over my own mouth to keep from screaming._

_There is thudding outside, and I crack the door open just enough to peek. There are five Peacekeepers in their standard white uniforms, round helmets reminded me of the hard candies I have had a few times in my life. They are very tall, aggressive looking men, and one of them has Aunt Marsa's hand twisted in his own. _

_Papa tries to move towards Aunt Marsa, but he is stopped by one of the Peacekeeper's batons; Papa only brushes it away, and the man responds by bringing the baton down on Papa's head, sending the aging man reeling and dropping to the floor. _

_Mommy begins to sob as I stood still, my knees starting to buckle as I look between the Peacekeepers and my father. I stuff my hand in my mouth, biting down, just now feeling my cold feet on the wood floor. _

_Mommy begs with them, pleading for them to please just leave our family alone-for it is her father and her sister that she will be losing today by the strike of a baton-but the Peacekeepers don't care._

_I-then just eleven years old-continue to watch in horror as the Peacekeepers dragged my aging grandfather out into the street, beating him into submission when he tried to fight back. _

_Inside, Mommy still begs for my family's life, on her knees as the Peacekeepers continued to beat up Papa outside, and carry Aunt Marsa outside alongside him. _

_I turn towards the bed that I share with my brother and sister and parents, wondering if they too have woken up and heard the screams. _

_I shut my bedroom door, covering my eyes and wishing the Peacekeepers will just leave. I hate them, I hate the fear they have instilled into my family._

_Someone is pounding on the door, and I scream as the door collapsed, tall men in white spilling into my bedroom. _

_They don't look at me, just lifted me to my feet, carrying me outside where my mother and aunt stands, shivering._

_Papa is on the ground, blood spilling out from his head, and I scream again. _

_Someone cuffs my on the ear, and I fall silent as another Peacekeeper bring out a sleepy Clarisse, who is only eight; the little girl is looking around in confusion, not quite recognising my mother or my grandfather, who is bleeding all over the stone road. _

_I ran towards my sister with tears in my eyes, holding tightly to my side. _

_Kestrel, who is thirteen-with our father steely grey eyes and harsh smile-walks out by himself, looking ready to punch one of the Peacekeepers if they touch him. _

"_Where is your husband?" one of the men in white asks my mommy, placing a heavy hand on the woman's frail, shaking shoulder. "Adela Crossley, where is your husband? Where is Denon Crossley? Tell me?" Mommy isn't answering-she can't answer, her whole person is trembling and her voice has escaped her-but the man continued to shake her, tugging her back and forth as her head rolls around in its socket. "Where is he? Where is he?" _

"_Jask!" one of the other men yells, pulling at the first man's arm. "She's scared, just let her calm down and answer you. Frightening the stupid lass will only make this take longer." _

_Jask scowls at his fellow Peacekeeper, but nods, releasing Mommy and steps away. I hold Clarisse closely to my, feeling the little girl shaking in her nightgown. It has to be at least two in the morning, sleep still clouding our eyes. _

_I look around, realising that Daddy isn't around-I can't even remember having seen him come home. Mommy usually waits up for him, sitting in the only chair we have, eyes trained on the door until he walks through the door, no matter how late. _

_Where is Daddy? Why isn't he home yet to explain to the Peacekeepers that we haven't done anything wrong? Daddy is smart-he can explain properly what have happened, that my family is innocent. But where is he?_

_One of the other Peacekeepers pulls off his helmet, revealing blond, curly hair that is cut short and close to his head. He is reading a message on his palm-screen, blue eyes widening as he looks up at his fellow Peacekeepers._

'_We've found Denon at the plant about ten minutes ago," the Peacekeeper says, a smirk forming on his pretty, round mouth. He is probably only a few years older than Kestrel, but carries an air of someone much older-the same air that all the Peacekeepers carried: arrogance, that's what it is. "Anx found him and the rest of the traitors trying to get on one of the shipment trains from 12."_

_Traitor? I repeat the word in my head, trying to make sense of it. Traitor-I have heard the word before, about the men and women who are publicly flogged in the main square. _

_Daddy says they are bad people, and they deserved to be punished. But Daddy isn't a bad person at all! He isn't a traitor-the Peacekeepers have to be confused. _

"_Please, please leave my husband alone!" Mommy screams, struggling away from the Peacekeeper named Jask, rushing towards the blond one, a wild look in her eyes. "Let him be, he's done nothing wrong-he's no traitor, I swear it! Let him be, let him be!" _

_The Peacekeeper named Jask steps forward, baton lifted, and Mommy, like Papa, crumples to the ground in one swift motion. Clarisse holds back a sob, turning away from the scene as she and I cling to our older brother._

_I look towards Kestrel, who have gone still and seems to be trying to hold in his rage. He looks down at my sleepy and pink face, his grey meeting my amber, and I shake my head, reminding him that no one else needs to get hurt tonight. He is the oldest, he needs to stay strong-he needs to stay alive. _

_One of the Peacekeepers pulls out his gun, pointing it at Papa. I scream, but it only blends into the booming of the man's gun, the harsh whistle as a bullet embeds itself into my grandfather's head. Lights flick on down the street, as Jask turns to smirk at Mommy, who is sobbing on the ground._

"_This is what we do to traitors like you, Mrs. Crossley. This is what we do to those who try to defy the Capitol. We will kill them, Mrs. Crossley-we will kill you." He says this with no emotion other than total malice-he hates my mother and I do not know why._

_More lights are on, doors are being creaked open. Three doors down, the young family that I had just spoken to this morning peek out at us. They do not make any move to help, and I look away, realising no help will come from anyone here. _

_The gun goes off again, and Aunt Marsa falls to the ground, red blood spilling from the wound onto cobblestone. I feel Clarisse shiver next to me as the Peacekeeper turns to Jask, pointing at my mother with the butt of his gun._

"_No!" Kestrel yells, realising just now what will be happening to her, to us. "No, please, please! Don't kill her-don't kill my mother! Please, no!" _

_The sound of a bullet inserting itself into my mother's head is the loudest, most horrible sound I have ever heard. The sound of my mother's life ending-the light that left her eyes. I will never forget it, I will never forget the night they killed my mother._

"_The kids?" asked the blond Peacekeeper, pointing at us. I pull Clarisse away, feeling her wet cheeks against my shoulder. "What about them?"_

"_They aren't traitors, right?" says the Peacekeeper with the gun, the one who has just killed three people who mean nothing to him, but everything in the world to me. "Orders were to kill the traitors, and these are just three kids."_

"_No one would miss them," Jask replies, but he grins at us, mocking the fear in our eyes, and directs for the other Peacekeeper to put his gun away. "I suppose we'll let them live, for now. As long as they understand where their true loyalties lie." He turns towards Kestrel. "Do you understand where your loyalties belong, boy?" _

_My brother stands quiet as the Peacekeepers watch us, and I tug on his arm, my eyes wide with fright. He has to say it, we all have to say it. No one else can die tonight._

"_I am loyal only to Panem, my protector and my home. I pay my respects to my country, to the Capitol, which keeps me safe and alive so that I might prosper in my duties." Kestrel says, reciting the oath that we have learned in school, and my sister and I quickly repeat it after him. _

_Jask laughs at our fear, but directs his men to grab the bodies and head off before the sun rises. After all, everyone knows that everybody dies-but the Peacekeepers would rather that not everybody knows who dies. _

….

I wake up with a scream at the edge of my throat, remembering the way my mom had fallen, remembering the way the blood had spilled across the cobblestone.

The Peacekeepers have killed my mom and my grandfather and my aunt. I haven't seen my father since that night, and Kestrel claims he is probably dead as well. At least, it would be better to pretend he is, rather than get our hopes up over nothing.

My father is a traitor, according to the Capitol, according to the people I work beside each day-according to my own brother, who is still mad at our father for running away four years ago.

My breath steadies as I flop back onto the bed, head pounding alongside my heart, and I feel as though I want to throw up. I hate the nightmares, hate the fact that I can never seem to quite forget that awful night four years ago.

Will I ever? Can I ever?

There is a pounding on the door, as Clarisse barges in, her bright, curly hair done up in two braids on eighty side of her head, her nicest dress on-it is a little short, having belonged to me just three years ago at my first Reaping. Though I was never too terribly tall and Clarisse is already as tall as I am now, the cloth is a pretty grey that brings out Clarisse's eyes.

"Are you up yet, Gina?" Clarisse asks me without looking, as I am still waking up from my spot on the bed, eyes and head feeling drowsy from sleep. I look up at my younger sister, processing the question as I remember. _Reaping Day. _

"How long do I have?" I asked, clambering from the bed, looking out the window and shivering. It is only May, but District 5 has always been rather cold, and the thin nightgowns that my sister and I wear don't protect us very much from the elements.

"Only a few hours, at best, I think," Clarisse replies, handing me the silver hairbrush we share and a pair of long socks, smoothing out her own hair in the cracked and dirty mirror. "The water's tepid now, if you hurry up. Kes is getting food from the market-he should be back in half an hour."

"Thanks, Clary." I says, stripping down to nothing but my underclothes as I head into the living room to scrub down in the bathtub.

My pale, freckled skin pains me from bruises earned scurrying through the power plant, and my hands instinctively curls around a hammer I do not currently have as I began to wash.

_Reaping Day. Oh dear. _

It is my least favourite day, and all I can think is that, if today is the day I am sentenced to death, I might as well look pretty.


	2. the odds are in my favour

_**I don't own The Hunger Games, nor do I own any recognisable characters. These are the property of Suzanne Collins. **_

….

"Hurry, Gina," Kestrel whispers, tugging on my hand as I follow him down one narrow street after another. He is a figure in stress, his nervous demeanor poorly disguised under a pretense of rushing, trying to maintain as much control as he can, knowing that everything else that happens today is entirely out of his control.

He is wearing brown slacks and a nice white shirt, but his shoes are scuffed from the dirty roads, and his hair is already a mess from running down the streets in an effort to make it to the town square in time. My brother, like everyone else in District 5, knows the urgency that Reaping Day brings.

My own simple grey dress ends just mid-calf, and I have on black tights underneath, as well as a pair of boots that had belonged to my grandfather. My hair is twisted into a fishtail braid, and I want to sigh at the time it had taken to get ready.

Wasted time, for I am no beauty, with my curly red hair and my bored looking amber eyes that struggled to focus. I had freckles, but only some, and only across my collarbone and arms, not on my face, where it might have been seen as cute or endearing. If I am picked, I doubt it will be my looks that get me sponsors.

"We aren't going to be late, Kes," I tell him shortly, twisting to look behind me. Clarisse is doing her best to keep up with us longer-legged siblings of hers. Though she is nearly as tall as I am now, most of that height has not gone into her legs.

Clarisse grins at me, but it is only covering the fear in her eyes, the shaking in her hands. My sister is doing her best to not stumble or trip, and I am proud of her. She is brave, especially for a twelve year old girl. She is much braver than I am, for sure.

My very first Reaping Day, I threw up, sobbing uncontrollably as the Tributes-a girl named Dien Peregrine and a boy named Vas Merke-were dragged away. Vas had been a year older than I, and though we hadn't always been incredibly close, he _was_ the closest thing I had had to a best friend.

I can still remember the treats he would sneak to me at lunch time, the times he would come over with food every now and then, and we would lie on my bed until I stopped crying. Vas protected me at school from the older, bigger kids, and he had been the only one to beg my brother and eye to stay in school when we had first considered dropping out, after our mother's death.

I cried bitterly when he was killed the third day, his head cut off by a Career Tribute with a sharp axe. I recall every moment of his death, the way he had seemed so surprised when the Career happened upon him, the way Vas' head rolled around on the ground when it was severed from his neck. Kes had tried to shield my eyes, but I looked anyway, determined to not show fear.

The girl Tribute, Dien, made it only a few days longer-she was speared by Johanna Mason, from District 7, the girl who had gone on to win the 71st Hunger Games. I don't know if anyone mourned Dien or if she had left any family before, but when she died, I had cried for her, sorry to see the waste of a life, even the life of a stranger.

"You okay, Gina?" Kestrel asks me, and I blink, remembering that I am still walking towards the town square, towards the Justice Building. Vas is dead-but I am not, and I won't be doing anybody any favours by wrapping myself up in the past. I am fifteen, and Vas is a dead child I once knew; recalling him will not save or condemn me either way.

Beyond Clarisse, I can see more people, children and families and the elderly making their way towards the Justice Building, where a crowd has starting gathering since early this morning. We are drawn to the center of town like moths to a light, reluctant, but knowing there is no other choice-our paths are inevitably drawn to this day each year.

_Reaping Day. _The very thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth as I remember past Reaping Days, Tributes who sometimes scream so loudly when their names are called, and the Peacekeepers who maintain a stern watch over everyone, batons at the ready in case things get out of hand.

They rarely do, though. After all, those of us living in District 5 is a peaceful, uncaring lot only concerned about our next meal and making it home at the end of the day with our clothes still on. We will let others die for us, if it means remaining safe for another year.

It really is obvious how small my District truly is, bringing us all here together in one place. It is too easy to see that the population is dwindling more and more every year, as citizens age and women find themselves barren where they hadn't been just six months ago.

Some important men from the Capitol had been by in the spring, performing tests, taking samples of blood at random. No one knows even now quite why they were here, but the answer was rather obvious to anyone with half a brain: they don't want to lose a District to something as simple as low reproduction rates.

Kestrel says I shouldn't worry about it-after all, asking questions can get you killed around here-but it still makes me anxious and nervous, seeing these men in my home, inspecting women at clinics for weeks at a time. There are rumours spread, when the Peacekeepers are not around, rumours that state that some women get pregnant even without having ever been with a man. They go the clinic and come back with a baby growing inside them.

"Gina!" Kes says again, his voice harsh with fear and impatience. I know the panic in his eyes comes from the thought that next year he will be eighteen, and after that, Clarisse and I will not have his Tesserae to protect us. He fears for us, his only remaining family, and I cannot fault him for that, any more than he faults me for the days that I spend sulking, stuck in the past, when things were better for us.

As we enter the town square, the sun shines bright, and I instinctively shut my eyes to block it out. Light bothers me, with my sensitive amber eyes, but there is nothing to be done but squint and follow Kestrel. I can hear the sounds of the other two thousands members of my District, and I unwillingly flash back to three years ago, walking to the Justice Building with Vas.

"_Do you think anything could happen to us?" I ask him, my voice trembling. Kes is holding Clarisse's hand, explaining that she'll have to stand with our neighbours, the Petrels, until we're done. _

_Vas laughs, and he flicks my braid off my shoulder in a single motion, giving me a carefree grin-he is thirteen, and I am twelve, just children. We are all children, every single one of us gathered here in front of the Justice Building. _

"_We'll be fine, Gina. We'll be fine-what could happen to us? You're in, what, once? And I'm in twice. The odds are entirely in our favour, you know that. We'll be fine. I'll see you in class tomorrow." He is so confident, so determined, and I want that. I want to feel so secure in my safety, the way Vas does now, but I cannot make myself feel it inside. _

_Despite my fear, I laugh with him, though I don't think I will ever feel as confident as Vas does. He leans into me as I laugh, watching as Kes hands nine year old Clarisse off to our neighbours. Kes is only fourteen, but he stands at nearly six feet tall, a giant next to me. Clarisse follows the Petrels with tears in her eyes, but she does not say a word. My sister is, if anything, very brave for her age. _

_Vas, too, is rather tall, and I lean against him as we get in line to get our finger pricked. Kes and Vas swear to me that it doesn't hurt, just a little pinch as the needle quickly pricks you and then you go to your place. It will only last a second, they swear to me, these tall boys who act like professionals when it comes to letting a stranger in white clothing stab you with a needle. _

"_I'll see you soon, Gina," Kes tells me, kissing my cheeks as he walks off towards where the rest of the fourteen year olds belong. He is right-the needle lasts only a second, and I do not even cry, like some of the children around me. I will be brave like my brother-I will not cry or scream or act like a scared child. After all, I am twelve years old now, and I must be mature. _

"_You ready?" Vas asks me, and I nod, following him closer to the Justice Building, where he points me towards where the rest of the twelve year olds are located. "Everything is going to be fine, Gina, don't worry. I promise, the odds are in our favour."_

_I nod, watching him walk away, joining a few of his friends as I silently sidle over to some vaguely familiar looking twelve year old girls. I hate that phrase, the odds are in your favour. There is also two people here for who that is simply not true._

_We wait for the Capitol escort, but I can't help but worry about Vas, who seems to have already forgotten about me as he cheerfully speaks to his friends, separated from me by mere feet, but I have already been erased from his mind as he turns to more important things. _

_The Capitol escort steps out, and I barely even notice her or her unusually wild clothes, reciting to myself the words that have kept so many others safe. 'The odds are in my favour, they're in my favour, in my favour.' I cannot make myself believe it._

_We run quickly through a montage-the same one every year-about the strength of the Capitol, the way they defeated the rebelling Districts, the fact that this is where the Hunger Games originates. We are made to feel small and insignificant and guilty for rebelling against our protectors, the Capitol, and I am properly cowed. _

_The girl's name is called first, and I sigh with relief when it isn't me-a sixteen year girl, with long dark hair walks up towards the stage. She is pretty, a girl who might have once been called Asian though Asia no longer exists according to the Capitol, with large brown eyes that flicker over the crowd nervously. She is only a few inches taller than I am, and I feel sorry for her._

_No one volunteers for her, in usual District 5 style, and Dien Peregrine becomes District 5's newest female tribute. _

_Quickly, they move on to the boy's, and I cross my fingers, begging for Kes to be safe. Kes and Vas, who can't die-other than Clarisse, they are the only two people I care about in the entire world, and I can't imagine what would happen if I lost either of them. _

"_Vas Merke!" the escort calls, and I hear myself screaming loudly, sinking to the ground as Vas steps out from his spot, walking slowly up to the stage. Those around me are shoving me back to my feet, and I sway back and forth as no one moves to save my friend. _

"_Vas Merke, the male Tribute of District 5!" the escort yells, and I nearly fall over again. My heart is pounding, tears are pooling in my eyes, and I want to sob, but nothing is coming out of my mouth. I can only stare up at Vas and the girl, my world collapsing around me. _

"_Say hello to your new Tributes!" the escort says cheerily, and like every other year no one cheers, for they do not care, they are merely grateful. I know these people do not entirely care about the death of two more children, because at least it is not them, or their children. At least they are safe and-_

"Are you okay, Gina?" Kestrel asks me, and I am instantly brought back to the present, staring up at my brother, who is giving me a concerned look as we wait in line. "Is something wrong?"

"I…I'm fine," I tell him, embarrassed. He probably didn't even remember Vas-after all, once someone died, most people just stopped talking about them altogether, as though they had never existed in the first place. I can still remember when they called his name out _"Vas Merke, the male Tribute of District 5!" _but as my brother watches me, I push the memories back, shaking my head as the line moves.

A woman, her hair tied up into a ponytail, is sitting calmly at a table, a needle ready in her hands as the line shifts. She takes down names, checking identities, and I can feel Clarisse bristle next to me as we step closer. Clarisse hated needles, hates the way they prick her skin and make her bleed.

"It'll be okay," I tell her, echoing the words that Kes and Vas had told me three years ago. "It only hurts for a second, and then you'll be fine. If you look away, you'll barley even feel it, I promise." This is a lie-in the past years, the needles seem to have become harsher, pinching the skin so deeply.

"Okay," she says, but as Kes steps up with his hand out, she shivers anyway. My sister is trying to be so brave, standing tall, her shoulders back, with her auburn hair cut short and blowing in the wind. I step up, feeling the punch as a needle inserts itself into the skin of my finger and just as quickly retreats. There is only a slight trickle blood, no hole, just a bored looking woman who waves me on so that Clarisse can take her turn.

My sister walks away to the other twelve year olds, but my brother pulls me into a tight hug, his head weighing on my shoulder. He is so tall, and my head only comes up to his chest. I breathe in the very smell of him, trying to keep from tearing up.

"Be safe, alright, Gina? Keep safe? For me?" he whispers into my ear, and I pull back, shocked. He has such fear in his eyes, and I realise he is thinking of the others who had believed they would be safe, only to be Reaped-those like Hallery or Vas. He is thinking of those who had been so confident and were now dead, streams of nameless children who had died without honour. My brother does not want to become that, and he does not want his sisters to become that, either.

"Of course I will, Kes. I'm always safe, aren't I?" I murmur, taking his hand in mine. He is so scared, I notice, for Clarisse and me. And it makes sense-Kestrel is the oldest in my family, and he is in charge of us. If either of us were to be Reaped, well, there was nothing he could do about it, as a boy with only two sisters. He cannot protect us, and that is my brother's greatest fear.

Kestrel seems reluctant to let me leave, and he continues to hold my hand tightly, trembling as the other young people around move to their respective areas. We stand closely until the Peacekeepers on guard near my brother and me have begun to shift uneasily as we don't move, and I finally have to pull away from him, wishing we didn't have to go to separate, kept apart, areas. Kestrel lets my hand drop with a sigh.

"I'll be fine, Kes, don't worry." I tell him, keeping a nervous eye on the Peacekeepers, who are still watching us. "The odds are in our favours, after all, we'll be fine. It's okay, I swear." I do not believe the words I speak, but it seems to calm my brother, so I repeat them all the same.

"I'm in there eighteen times, Gina. What are you going to do if something happens to me, if I get Reaped? What if-"

"It is fine, Kes, just keep calm." I tell him, trying to convince myself as well. "Everything is going to be just fine. We'll be fine."

He nods, but I can tell he is still anxious. Clarisse has already settled in the section roped off for twelve year olds, but she turns back to look at us with a worried glance. I wave her off, faking a smile as I make my way to where the fifteen year olds stand, nestling between a slightly taller girl with blonde hair and a petite girl with dark skin and a queasy look on her face.

No one is speaking as I settle down, and it is entirely quiet except for the occasional rustle of fabric when someone fidgets or moves around. No one greets me, and I might have been an invisible spectre except for the deep breathing that seems to fill my head as I wait.

We're waiting as the last few people file in, finding their place to stand in the crowd. The girl next to me is wringing her hands, looking really likely to want to throw up, but there is nowhere for her to go. She is stuck here until the Reaping is over, just like the rest of us. I move away from her all the same, not wanting to stand near the queasy looking girl.

On the stage are two glass bowls standing on either side of a slender, silver microphone. My eyes immediately gravitate to the one towards my left, imagining the four slips of paper with my shaking handwriting on them.

The odds are in my favour, I tell myself yet again, but it simply doesn't feel true. The ill looking girl has begun to shake violently, and those around us are beginning to shift away in annoyance. After all, we are supposed to pretend like we're enjoying ourselves. We're supposed to pretend that no one is being sent to their own death, let alone the senseless murders of two children.

_I don't know if I can do this. _

The doors to the Justice Building crack open, and three people come out, settling down in plain brown chairs to look down at us. One of the men stumbles, and I recognise him almost immediately as Jean Arvar, previous Victor and notorious drunk.

That must mean that the really pretty young woman next to him is Hallery Gais. Even now, she serves as a shock, reminding me of the twelve year old who emerged victoriously from the Games only six years ago. To be honest, I had always kind of looked up to Hallery, ever since she came back, District 5's first ever female Victor.

Now, however, feeling her harsh gaze sweeping out through the crowd, I am only afraid of her. Hallery Gais is an eighteen year old warrior with no one to keep her under control. She is terrifying, and I can almost see now why she won her Games-by being completely and utterly scary and mad.

The other male Victor is Dev Wyer, who has greying hair and an easy smile. He was District 5's first win over forty years ago, and other than the murder of his wife, very little is known about him, as he lives in total isolation other than during the Games. I shiver at the sight of him all the same, despite his easy demeanor.

The last person to step out of the Justice Building, just as the crowd is beginning to get truly impatient and twitchy, is the Capitol representative for District 5: Crystaline Starlie, more commonly called Crys. She has pale blue hair, dusted blue lips, and a bright blue sparkling dress that sticks out like a circle just around her waist. She looks like a bubble, and I almost snicker at her absolute ridiculousness.

Crys has always kind of freaked me out, evidence that the citizens of the Capitol were a little mad and out of touch with those who lived in the outlying Districts. No one here would have ever dared to wear anything she was now, not in District 5 or even District 1. Crys is prone to dramatics, loyal to her homeland, safe in the knowledge that it will never be her children who are sent off to die.

_I hate her. _

She smiles at us, her blue lips parting to reveal sparkling white teeth, and her hair bobs in the wind. She raises both arms, and the crowd falls entirely silent; all movement stops, as two thousand people turn to look at the stage. Crys seemed to preen from the attention, as though she thinks we truly wish to see her, as if she is the one we have been waiting for.

The mayor of District 5, an aging man named Hadge, is standing behind her, a peaceful and entirely normal man, his dark skin in stark contrast next to Crys' bright blue mess. His lips are pursed as the usual montage begins as it does every year.

The same clip begins as it does every year, with President Snow speaking to us in his slow, calming voice, reassuring us that the Dark Days are over. The Rebellion is no more, and yet, seventy-four years later, we are still paying penance for the sins of our grandparents.

When the broadcast finally stops, Crys turns back to us, smiling her toothy smile, acting as though she has just seen the best thing ever. But, I remind myself, she _is _from the Capitol, and her idea of entertainment is probably watching promos all the time.

"And now, for the ladies!" she cries, making her way over to the left glass bowl, reaching in to fish out a name. I'm still repeating the increasingly less calming words _the odds are in my favour. _I'm already shaking, and I have to pinch the inside of my arm. _Only four, only four. Clarisse only has one, you've got four. _

_Calm down-the odds are in your favour. _

"Regina Crossley!" Crys cries, holding up the paper, waving it above her head. The others around me shift, moving away from me with odd looks in their eyes. My mind goes blank, and all I can think is _the odds are in your favour. _

_Regina Crossley. Did she say Regina Crossley? No-no! The odds are in my favour, mine! No, please! Please don't kill me, I don't want to fight, please! _

"Regina Crossley? Where are you?" Crys calls again, and the Peacekeepers begin shifting, wondering if they are going to need brute force to drag me onto the stage. It has happened before, and they are more than willing to rough up a rebellious Tribute.

Someone pushes me out from the crowd, and I look up at the stage, where Hallery and Jean and Dev all sit, where Crys is waiting, where the screens show my shocked, terrified face. I make my way down the path, feeling the tension being released from several hundred girls, who have not just been sentenced to their death. I do not feel bad for them-my head is still too numb from shock to be truly angry-for I would do the same thing, in their position.

I walk up towards the platform on shaking legs, feeling the eyes of the entire District on my back. I want to scream, I want to run away, but all I can see around me are Peacekeepers with their batons, ready to drag me back to the stage if I try to flee like others have tried before me.

"Yes, yes come on up, don't be shy!" Crys says cheerfully as I begin my ascent up the stairs, feeling self-conscious with my bright orange hair.

I don't like this, being singled out, being noticed-I prefer to blend in with the background, to be something, someone, you notice and immediately forget. This? This is the exact opposite of blending in. The eyes of all of Panem are on me as I step towards Crys.

"Hello, dear, hello, hello! What's your name, just say it for me-into the microphone, please, there's a good girl." She shoves it into my face, and I nearly start crying from shock.

"R-Regina Crossley," I mutter into the microphone, and it echoed throughout the silent town square. There were no cheers for me like there will be for the Career tributes. There is no sign of respect or honour or even sadness in these people that stared back at me. I am just another nameless dead girl to them.

I am the rescuer of their daughters, the person who will ensure that at least some of these females will continue to live on, to continue on their simple path. My life has ended, but in the process, I am saving the lives of others.

This does not make me feel any better about the fact that in a week and a half, at best, I will be dead, my hair dull and my eyes closed forever. After all, though the soldier knows what they are doing is for others, I doubt they would truly want to die.

"And how old are you, I?" Crys asks me, still smiling happily, like this is just a simple interview, like I have won a contest for something grand, instead of being chosen to die in a week's time. Crys' blue hair wobbled back and forth slightly, but she only smiles at me with a pleasant look in her eyes, waiting for me answer.

"Fifteen." I finally reply, wishing the entire crowd would disappear so I could cry in private. I can't see Clarisse from here-no matter how much I try scanning the section where the twelve year olds stood, I can't see Clarisse's auburn hair.

Closer to the platform, though, is Kestrel, who is staring up at me with a look of horror, as though he has just realised the danger his sister is in-and who would volunteer for me?

Certainly not Clarisse, who is just a little girl-we have agreed, she would never volunteer for me, Clarisse will stay alive. She has to. And there is no one else who cares about a simple looking red haired girl with such a sad look in her eyes.

"Lovely, very lovely." Crys says, and then turns away from me, facing the crowd once more. "Now, before we move onto the boys, would anyone like to volunteer for Ms. Crossley here? Anyone, any volunteers? No?"

No one moves, no one spoke, except for the sounds of someone crying-it isn't Clarisse, but a mother in the background, probably desperately relieved her daughter is safe for yet another year. Unlike me, who will never be safe again-the only thing I will ever be again is dead, or dying. My end will like a wild animal, hunted and chased until I can no longer find the energy to run.

"And now, for the boys." Crys moves on stiletto heels, walking quickly in a way that reminds me of a mouse, scurrying here and there, always moving, and always hurrying somewhere. Crys stops in front of the glass bowl that held the males names, and I silently beg that it is not Kestrel's name that is called-that would only be cruel, pitting sibling against sibling.

"The male tribute for District 5 is…." Crys pauses for dramatic effect, though no one seems to appreciate it. They just want to get over with it, they just want to hear the name and make sure it isn't anyone they know or care about. "Fren Peregrine! Fren Peregrine, where are you? Come on up and join us here, come on."

A boy who would have been considered of Asian descent in the past steps out from the crowd, raising his hand slightly as though preparing to answer a teacher's question in class. The Peacekeepers don't touch him and Fren walks calmly up the stairs, joining Crys and I on the stage.

He is only an inch or two taller than I, I note with some faint relief, though heavier, for sure. His hair is a dark brown, and his mouth is pulled down in a scowl. He doesn't seem dangerous, though, and I can see the hidden terror in his hazel eyes when he looks in my direction.

I want to say that I knew this boy, and that I was friendly with him, but in all honesty, I couldn't recall having ever even seen him before. He is just another face in the crowd that I had probably passed without a second glance a dozen times before. His name, however, sounds familiar, and I strain to think about where I might have heard it. He is my age, or around there, but I can't think why his name rings a bell.

"Hello, Fren, hello, hello! And how old are you? Come on, don't be shy, into the microphone here, yes, yes. Right here, come on, Fren." Crys says excitedly, shoving the microphone into Fren's face, who looked startled and confused, and slightly unsure of what is truly going on here.

"I….I'm fifteen…" he mumbles into the microphone in Crys' hand. It squeals with feedback, and everyone claps frustrated hands over their ears as Crys pulls the silver microphone away with a look of annoyance, bringing it back closer to its silver stand.

"Very well, let's move on then. Are there any volunteers for District 5, to take up the place of this wonderful young man here? Any volunteers?" Again, there is no one, only silence, and Crys nods, having expected such. She hates us, too, I realise, us District people with no sense of fashion or flair that she has become used to in the Capitol.

"Lovely! Then may I present the District 5 Tributes of the 74th Hunger Games-Regina Crossley and Fren Peregrine! And may the odds be _ever _in your favour!" Crys grins widely, blue lips separating to reveal perfectly straight white teeth, with (fake?) diamonds placed strategically on various enamels.

A Peacekeeper takes my arm, leading me away, into the Justice Building, and I nearly break down then, once more. I am led into a small room-though it is certainly the fanciest room I have ever been in. there is a bright purple sofa and a violet armchair that I settle down in.

Here in the Justice Building is where I will wait until they are ready to get me. I can receive visitors-though I don't expect anyone other than Kestrel and Clarisse to come by-and then the Peacekeepers will load me onto the train. As I sit, I once again flash back to three years ago, in this very room.

"_Oh, Vas!" I cry, flinging my arms around his neck. I begin to sob into his shoulder, wishing I was a boy so I could have volunteered for him. When I had arrived to say my good-byes, I had passed Vas' family-his mother and grandmother, his three brothers and his two sisters. _

_Who would take care of them now that Vas was going to the Games? _

"_Oh, Vas, oh! Oh!" I couldn't think of anything to say, so I just sat next to him, clutching his hand in mine, trying to remember his face before I had to leave._

"_I'll be fine, Gina, I promise. I'll come back-I swear," he tells me, but we both know that won't happen. Vas is thirteen, small and slender. He cannot fight, and he will never kill anyone. _

"_I love you, Vas." I tell him, squeezing his hand. "I love you so much-you are my best friend, and I don't want you to go!"_

"_Neither do I, Gina, trust me," he says, laughing bitterly. I recall suddenly, and with a frantic look, I pull out something from my pocket. It is a small piece of silver, with the image of our District on one side, and a picture of Vas and I from a few years back pasted onto the back. I had been carrying it around with me for a while. _

"_Take this." I tell him, shoving it into Vas' hands. "Take it, as your token. Take it, remember me, okay? Please, please, just." _

"_Okay, Gina, I will." He smiles at me, kissing my cheek as he slides the token into his pocket and giving me a tight hug. The Peacekeepers have returned, and I shudder, wishing I could stay with Vas forever and keep him safe._

_He pushed me away, though, and I leave with tears in my eyes, hearing his soft good-byes behind me as the Peacekeepers lead me away. _

"Gina?!" Clarisse shrieks in the present, throwing herself onto me, her tears mixing with mine. She kisses my cheeks, my forehead, and my nose. She holds me close as Kestrel stands at the doorway, trembling with barely controlled anger.

"I'm so sorry," I tell him, but he only shakes his head, dropping onto the sofa across from me. Clarisse begins patting my face, whispering my name over and over, and I want to cry as the two of them stand close with me.

"You have to be fast in the arena, Gina," Kes tells me, and I look at him, his grey meeting my amber. I am reminded of our similarities then-we are both smart and fast, good with our hands. He has the same flaming hair as I do, though mine shines maybe a little brighter.

"Gina?" he asks, looking at me with a concerned look. "Gina, please listen to me. This is important, listen. You have to be fast when you get to the arena-you have to be faster than anyone else, okay? If someone comes at you, don't fight, just run. You're good with a hammer, but the others will be experienced with things like knives and bows. You can run, Gina, so please-j_ust run_."

"Okay," I whisper, and he moves to grip my hands, moving my head so I have no choice to look at his cold grey eyes. He is so desperate, so incredibly desperate, and that desperation scares me. I do not want my brother to die as well.

Not for me.

"Stay safe, Kes? Keep Clarisse safe-keep yourself safe, please?" I ask him, and he nods. "Don't do anything stupid, Kes. Don't be brave…just keep Clarisse safe, okay? Just keep yourselves fed and try not to…to cry too much when I…well, when _it _happens."

"No." Kes says, standing up, suddenly angry. "No, you _will _come back, Gina. You _have _to! You're my sister, and you have to come back! Gina, you can't just die!"

"I can't promise that I'll make it out, Kes. I'm no exactly a fighter, like you said. I can run, but how far? How fast? What if I starve or get sick or anything else?"

"You can't," he tells me simply, and I laugh, because there are tears in my eyes and I am going to die soon. "You've read so many books, Gina, learned so many things. Use them in the arena, use your knowledge to survive. Outwit the others."

"What am I going to do? Recite facts and hit them over the head with my hammer? I'm no fighter, Kes, we all know that. I'm not a fighter…_I'm not._" Kes is shaking his head, gripping me tightly, and Clarisse and is still kissing my forehead like it will keep me safe.

"You have to be smarter, Gina. You have to be the smartest one there, do you hear me? Do you hear me, Gina? Be smart. Be smarter than the rest, and win. Come back home, to Clarisse and me. Come back to us, and come back alive."

"Kes, I-" There is a knocking at the door, and we all jump, frightened. My brother grows frantic and he throws his arms around me as if it will keep me safe, as if he can hold me like this forever so that I never have to leave or die.

"No, no, no…no!" he begins to shriek, but the Peacekeepers come in just then, and they pull my brother and my sister away. I watch them go, covering my eyes as I cry. My only family in the entire world, and I watch as they are dragged away.

Another Peacekeeper arrives, beckoning for me to follow after him, and I get to my feet. I am shaking all over, and I'm unsure how I'm even able to walk down the carpeted hallways of the Justice Building, following him to the only train platform in District 5.

_I am going to die_, I think to myself as I follow him away from my only home. _I am going to die and I am not okay with that. _


	3. I'm not a little fox

_**I do not own the Hunger Games, nor do I own any recognisable characters. These are the property of Suzanne Collins. **_

…

I shiver as I follow the silent Peacekeeper away from my only home, wishing I could just run away from him, from the train that he is leading me to. I do not want to die, not like this. I am only fifteen years old and they are going to kill me.

_Breathe_, I tell myself, trying to keep from falling apart. I do not want to meet my mentors as an emotional wreck; they will think of me as only a weeping little girl for the short time that we will know each other. They will think I am weak-I do not want them to think that. Instead, I breathe and do what I do best: concentrate on my surroundings.

There is only one train for all of District 5, and it is only used for this one purpose most of the time, taking Tributes to the Capitol and shipping them back home in wooden boxes. Our train station is damp and small and dirty-no one goes there unless they have to, and I myself have seen the train only once in my life.

They have not bothered to update the train for my District in forty years, and we still have a no longer gleaming silver tube that has eight carts. I have heard that it shakes and rattles terribly from the few people who have ridden on it and come back.

The Peacekeeper who is leading me stops just before the edge of the platform, turning to look at me. His helmet is off, and I can see the worn features on his aging face as he frowns at me. He is a stranger, yet I can't help but wonder if he had been there when my mother died. I can't help but wonder if he had known the man who killed her.

"Here we are," he says gruffly, pointing at a rusting metal tube. There are six carts, not very long, but each one is bigger than my entire house. It looks worn out and dying, but I am amazed nonetheless. This is the metal beast that will take me to the Capitol?

"Thank you," I choke out as he opens the train door for me. I do not mean it, because I am not thankful, but Kestrel has always taught me to be polite to the Peacekeepers. Being polite can often save your life around these surly men. "Thank you."

"Good luck," he says to me as I start to climb the stairs, and I turn back towards him, surprised. For a brief second, it is too easy to see this man as a fellow human with a family and a life and dreams. For a brief second, it is too easy to imagine that this man cares whether or not I die.

And then, it is all over, as the pity in his eyes fades back to cold aloofness. He shoves me a little, eager no doubt to get away from the dead girl. He has gone back to being a soldier and I am still just a girl for whom the odds were not willing to favour. The Peacekeeper waves up towards where the conductor is, and a whistle blows loudly.

I leave him behind, shutting the outer train door behind me without a second glance. As I board the train, it occurs to me that I will most likely not be one of the lucky ones that come back. This will be my only chance to ride on a train, and I will be spending it speeding towards my death in the Capitol.

I wonder what the other Tributes have thought about their time here-what Vas and Hallery and Jean Arvar had all been thinking when they boarded this train. Had they suspected their outcome, or had they been convinced, as I am now, that death was inevitable?

Though old and aging, the silver train is still the most amazing thing I have ever seen. I have left the Peacekeeper behind, the train has started to chug weakly, and I hear the sounds of the other passengers somewhere just out of view. My entire life seems to be moving forward, just like this train, and all I want to do is scream for it to stop, _please_.

I sigh, hearing the main door slide close behind me, and I wipe away the last of my tears, preparing to meet the people who will help do their best to keep me alive for as long as they possibly can.

The first thing I notice is how incredibly soft the carpet is under my boots; indeed, I am almost tempted to pull off by boots, my socks as well, and just walk through the entire train barefoot. But then I remember that there are at least five other people on the train, and I have no doubt that Crys wouldn't appreciate it very much if I ruined the carpets.

The next thing I notice is how terribly the train shakes-I can feel it underneath me, moving like some large beast on the move, searching and constantly shifting. It is well known that those in charge of the trains going to the Capitol do particularly care if the trains are comfortable for those coming _from _the Districts.

If they are able to travel between the Districts without breaking down regularly, and if the trains can more or less meet regulation standards, a District train simply isn't upgraded; our train, the one designated for District 5, is rather old-older than my mother had been when she died, and quaking much like I had been when they called my name.

The lights flicker-once, and then again, as though to remind me that everything is temporary and that temporary things are always seen as gifts when they come from the Capitol-and farther up, a whistle blows. I jump, startled by the noise.

The train had started moving as soon as I got on, and we are probably now just under five hours away from the Capitol. Five hours, and it was only just past noon when I had jumped on. I don't know if I can handle five hours stuck on a train.

Five hours…we are still too close to the Capitol for me to ever feel comfortable. After all, it is in the Capitol where people walk around wearing bizarre costumes, and where they care for fashion and eating, but not for the people who provide these things for them.

It is in the Capitol where a few thousand people will be cheering as my District partner and I are brutally slaughtered; they will laugh and party as I beg for my life, or as I slowly freeze to death in the cold harshness of the Arena. They will celebrate while I starve and die.

I shake my head, trying to dispel such thoughts as these-it is the ones who give up before the Games are even started who die the fastest. It is the ones who lose the will to live that the Career Tributes-the ones from District 1, 2, and 4 who have been trained in the art of murder-seek out. They love easy prey, and they enjoy taking their time, when they can.

There are voices up ahead, and the sound of glass tinkling. I can hear Crys with her ridiculous Capitol accent as she discusses the shininess of silverware, no doubt oblivious to the fact that no one else in the room could possibly ever care.

I make my way towards the noise, squinting at sunlight that streams through clear glass windows. There aren't any glass windows in District 5-windows are an expensive commodity and take too much time to craft for anyone to bother trying; most people just block out the dirt with faded curtains or old clothes, hoping that the smog doesn't reach inside during the night.

I find myself pausing in the doorway of what is probably the most elaborate and expensive dining room I will ever be in. the table is longer, it seems like, than my house, a red-coloured wood that I recall from one of my books on trees. It is called mahogany, I think, pretty enough, but finer than anything I have ever seen before.

Five people sit at a table that could fit sixteen, and I can sense the tension as they all stop eating, looking up at me as I enter, curious glances and judgmental looks already prepared on their faces. I want to run away, feeling like a scared child set before angry, disappointed teachers.

The other Tribute quickly glances back down at his plate as I sit down next to him, my hands shaking as I try to compose myself. He seems shy as well, nervous even, and I feel just a little bit better knowing that he isn't any more confident than I am.

"Regina Crossley, I presume then?" asks the older looking of the two male mentors, the one named Dev Wyer, and I nod, avoiding his curious gaze. No one is eating anything anymore, except for Jean, who doesn't even seem to have noticed I ever came in.

"Well, now that we're all finally here together and settled in, I suppose it is time to begin!" Crys says too cheerfully, clapping her hands and smiling at the boy and me like we were particularly pleasing birthday gifts that she couldn't wait to unwrap.

Crys reminds me of a child with her bright clothing and hair the colour and texture of cotton candy. She always seems so disconnected form the Tributes she is supposed to be watching over, like we are just an endless parade of the same two people every time she looks at us.

(I don't know-maybe that is how she handles it, pretending we are all the same. Nameless, without identity or distinction. Or maybe she just doesn't care about sending two strangers to their deaths. After all, why would she care about us?)

"Now," she begins with a happy little sigh, "as I'm sure you know, these are your mentors-Hallery, Jean, and Dev. They are here to train you and prepare you for the upcoming Games and to help you should any need arise in the Arena. If you have any questions at any time, they most likely have the answer." The look on Crys' face said otherwise, her nose wrinkled in disdain.

She paused, still grinning even with that look of disgust in her eyes at the sight of us, and I realise she was probably expecting a torrent of questions to just come spilling from the other Tribute and me, as though we are eager to know how it is we will die.

(Answer: Soon. Painfully soon.)

"What is that?" I blur out, pointing at what looks like what may be a type of food sitting in front of me, though it doesn't strike me as very food-like. It is flat and in the shape of a triangle, with melted cheese and some sort of unfamiliar meat on top of the pressed bread.

Crys stops smiling almost immediately, tuning to look at me with her jaw extended, mouth open as wide as it can go. I turn red in confusion, unsure of what I have just done that would make her look at me with such horror. Have I already messed up?

"She…she doesn't…doesn't even know…dear me, you…oh dear…" Crys continues spluttering indignantly and I want to leave as the mentors start to chuckle. I am embarrassed and confused, my entire face going red with an effort to not panic. Why are they laughing at me?

"It is called pizza, Regina, Hallery explains, picking a piece of the _pizza _to take an enormous bite out of it. She smiles at me teasingly as I stare, shocked. I have never seen someone eat food that way, as if there is enough to go around.

(There has never been enough food to go around, not for my family.)

"Haven't ever seen pizza before today, Regina?" Dev asks, and I shake my head-so does the other Tribute, who I suddenly recall is named Fren. Dev chuckles again as Crys continues to mumble in shock. "That's fine, isn't it Crys? You should have a slice, though-trust me, it's delicious." He hands me a piece, warming my hands and weighing them down with the strange food.

I take a bite, surprised to discover that the _pizza_ is warm and cheesy. It warms the inside of my mouth, and I almost think it might burn with the heat. This is so very different from the food I am used to, the plain chunks of bread, the poorly-grown vegetables that struggle to survive in our scrap of a garden. I have had meat before, but rarely. The bit I bite into now fills my mouth with the smell of cooked flesh, and I have to hold in a sigh of pleasure.

"Delicious, isn't it, Regina?" Dev asks, grinning cheekily at me as I take another bite. He is old enough to be a grandfather, almost, but looking at Dev, all I can see is my seventeen year old brother, who has only ever been serious and mature, unlike this grown man before me now. I didn't think adults _could _be childish and playful, like Dev seems to be.

"Regina?" Jean suddenly says, looking up from his large pile of food, his dull blue eyes meeting my amber. He is clearly already drunk, reeking of alcohol and unfocused as he looks at me. "Regina…doesn't that mean queen or something? Your mom think you were a little queen, Regina?"

"N-no," I stumble, once more embarrassed as he questions me. The kids at school had teased be before about my name. "She didn't think I was a queen, no sir. She said…she said…" _She said the name was beautiful. It had been her grandmother's name, and her grandmother had been beautiful, Mom said_. I can't make the words come out, though, and Jean only laughs, turning back to his food as though he has already lost interest.

"And Fren Peregrine!" he cries, turning to the boy, who sits uncomfortably in his chair, avoiding eye contact. "Our male Tribute. Peregrine, hmm? Where have I heard that name before?" Jean puts a finger to his chin, as though pretending he was thinking hard.

"His sister was Reaped a few years back, remember?" Hallery says in a cold voice, and Fren seems to grow smaller as she speaks. "Diane or Devin or-"

"Dien," Fren whispers, tearing up. I want to move away from him, this boy who is consumed by the thought of his dead sister. I feel pity for what family he has left behind-they have lost their daughter and now their son to the Reaping; I cannot imagine going through that sort of turmoil. "My sister was named Dien. She died in the seventy-first Games."

"Oh, yes, Dien. If I recall correctly, she fought quite bravely, didn't she?" Jean asks, oblivious to the pained look on Fren's face as he continues speaking. "Such a tough young girl-a shame she didn't make it, really. I had thought _maybe_, but…"

Fren is red in the face, head bent almost into his chest; he is shaking forcefully and I want to reach out to comfort him, but I know to do so would be no help. This is not someone who needs a comforting touch-this is someone who is beyond physical comfort.

_He will not make it long, this boy. He is weak-dead already. _And though it is a cruel thought, it is true. Fren will be an easier opponent to face, already given up, already prepared to go home in a nicely packed cardboard box.

I am beginning to think like a Tribute already, I realise with distaste, sizing up my opponent, determining a strategy to dispose of him. I know, if the time comes, I could take the boy who sits next to me now, the boy with tears in his eyes. I hate myself for knowing this, especially since I know there will come a time in which knowing how to murder Fren might save my life.

_I am not a killer. I am not a killer. I am not a killer._

What other lies will I learn to believe over the next week?

"If you're going to win, you have to be good at something," Jean says, his manner turning serious so quickly that I can't help but gape at him, startled by the sudden shift in attitude.

"What are you good at?" He asks us, voice sharp and harsh as he looks at Fren and me with an observant gaze, sizing us up with a glance. "What can you do that will keep you alive during the Games? How will you not just survive-how will you win?"

Fren and I blink at each other, scrambling to think of some small, hidden talent that might help us during the Games. I hate this, reviewing my life just so my mentors and my partner can both realise I'm totally useless. There is nothing I can do except run and hide-not exactly qualities of a future Victor.

"I'm handy with a knife," Fren says finally, breaking the silence between us. "I know how to handle one, how to cut with a knife...my father is a butcher for the Peacekeepers."

"So you know how to slice a turkey, is that it? You know how to carve up a big pig or slit the throat of a cow?" Jean asks, laughing coldly. "Those are animals, boy. _Animals. _You aren't fighting against mindless animals here-you're killing children, you're fighting against children who are all trained to kill, some with much more knowledge with knives or bows or any manner of weapons than you could learn in the three days you get for training."

"I...I can blend in with my surrounding pretty well," Fren says desperately, and I dispel the pity that is quickly rising inside of me. Blending in with the scenery will do him no good in those first few hours, unless he can get away fast-and I can sense even now that Fren is not very fast.

He's certainly not as fast as I am, and even I'm not sure about my chances of making it out of the Bloodbath alive let alone unscathed.

Jean, unlike me, seems to have no ability to cover up his derision for the two of us, snorting loudly at Fren's comment, mumbling about lost hopes to Dev, who only nods. I look over at Fren, who has now gone red in the face and begins staring at his hands.

"I know, I know," he grumbles, not looking anyone in the eyes. "I'm useless, aren't I? I'm absolutely fucking useless, aren't I? I don't know why it even fucking matters, though-we're gonna die, aren't we? District 5 is no good at this, we always die, every _fucking _year. What's the point?"

"What's the point?" Hallery repeats, eyes storming and voice growling with anger. "What's the point? Are you an idiot, boy, or just a child? The _point _is to survive at all costs-the _point _is to kill your opponents and to get out alive and as unscathed as you possibly can. That's what the point is: not to make a mark or to stick in people's memories. Your entire point here is to _just survive_."

"You-girl-what can you do?" Jean asks, pointing his fork at me before directing it towards a slice of cake in front of him. "How are you going to stay alive and not disappoint me by being completely useless and making your District look like weak idiots."

I cannot think of anything to say-what is there that I'm good at? Fren's right, we _are _useless, and we _are _going to die, because I don't even know what to say to Jean. What am I good at? What have I spent the last fifteen years figuring out how to do?

_I'm fast. I'm fast and I'm clever, and I can climb. That's it-that's what I can do: hide and run and scurry away from the actual killing. I'm fast._

"I can run…I guess…" I tell him, and Jean snorts, taking another large bite of his cake, leaning in close so I can smell alcohol and frosting on his breath. "I can run fast-I was the fastest girl in my class when I was in school-and I'm smart. I can outsmart my opponents and…and…I can climb. I can hide where no one sees me and I can keep out of all the fighting."

"Do you hear this?" Jean asks, turning to look at Dev, who raises his eyebrows in a question. "We've got a couple of _cowards _this year, instead of Tributes. He can blend in and you can run away, is that what I'm hearing? So, neither one of you are any good at killing or fighting?" Jean sighs, shaking his head. "Well, we're certainly not getting winners out of these two, are we? No wins for District 5 this year, clearly."

My blood seems to boil as Jean smirks at us, and I'm growing angry. I know, deep down, he is trying to make us angry, to see if maybe we will react and attack him (to show to him how good of a fighter we truly are) but instead I sit in my seat, fists clenched, watching him eat the slice of cake, mocking me with every word.

_I am fast_, I tell myself, and suddenly, I know how to make Jean pay attention to me. I know how to make Jean actually listen to what I am saying, instead of mocking my every word.

He blinks, and the next thing that Jean notices is that the cake has moved from his hand to mine, and I am nibbling it myself, giving him my best smirk. Jean seems shocked and Dev's mouth gapes open, but it is Hallery who finally chuckles, giving me a thumbs up.

"She wasn't kidding about being fast, was she? Cover up that hair of her's and no one would ever notice she was even there. Nice job, Gina. We might be able to train you enough to get into the top eight this year, or even the top four." Hallery says, laughing.

"Oh, yes," Jean says, voice growing cruel again as he gathers his wits about him once more. "The little fox is very clever isn't she, and a nice two-bit thief at that. What can we do with the little fox-send her out to get the others arguing about who took their stuff, their food, their weapons?" He looks at me once more, studying my face, and I turn away, red. "She reminds me of a fox, too. The narrow face, the pointed nose-she _is _a little fox. Our Foxface, that's what she is!"

"Stop it." I tell him, growing angry once more. "You can't call me that. Don't call me Foxface, don't call me little fox-don't. You can't call me that."

"And why ever not, little fox? What do you have against the nickname? Is that what they called you at school, Foxface? Is that what the bullies called you when they tripped you or stole your lunch? Little fox, little fox." He continues taunting me, and I can only see red now.

I stand up, discarding my chair as I glared at Jean. I am angry, my shoulders shaking, hands trembling. I hate him, the way he mocks me and calls me little fox. I thought mentors were meant to help out and _mentor_, but this man is a beast. He is worse than the Peacekeepers, who at least are an obvious enemy, bearing sticks and hateful looks.

"You _may not call me little fox_." I tell him quietly, ready to punch him if I have to. I hate Jean, I realise then. I hate him more than anyone, even more than the Peacekeepers who killed my mother. "You cannot call me that, it is not my name, and if you do, I'll do so much more than just take your stupid piece of cake."

"Oh? The fox has spunk, doesn't she?" Jean says, laughing, and the next thing I know, I am on top of him, shrieking loudly, my fists flailing against his face. I hate him-_I hate him, hate him, hate him_-and as I smack him I yell over and over, the same thing.

"I am not Foxface or FoxGirl or little fox! Stop calling me that! I hate you! I hate you, stop calling me that, stop it!" I shriek, my fist connecting with his face over and over, and I can hear Crys yelling at me, Hallery trying to pull me away, but I am only focused on hurting Jean, who is in front of me.

"Regina!" Hallery yells, pulling me away and shaking me like a doll. I still see only red, my head buzzing as it tries to focus on Hallery's words. "Regina, you have to calm down. Girl, you can't lose control like that, you have to keep it together. Regina, listen to me."

But I don't listen to her. Instead, I do what I am best at: I run, tugging away from her and fleeing away from the dinner compartment, down a long hallway. I am not sure where I am going, only that I want to leave and get away. I run until I reach a large window opening on a view of the outside, and then I sit down, exhausted and with tears staining my cheeks.

It only takes fifteen minutes for Fren to find me, huddled against the glass, shaking as I try to stop the hiccups that have come with the tears. He doesn't say anything at first, just standing there until I finally gather myself, getting under control. I look up at him, brushing away the remaining tears still on my cheeks.

"I'm sorry for...you know," I tell him, wiping my eyes as I lean against the cool glass of the window. "I just...I don't like being called Foxface and...god, I want to _punch _him, you know? He's supposed to be our mentor, and yet, all he's doing is tearing the two of us down. How is _that _supposed to make us better fighters?"

"Why don't you like the name Foxface?" Fren asks quietly, dropping to the floor next to me. He has broad shoulders that brush against me as he shifts; I pull away, frustrated by the emotions I have allowed the others to see. "Is there some aversion you have to the name that you'd care to explain, or is it personal?"

"My grandfather…" I sigh, letting my mouth snap shut. It has been four years, but I do not wish to speak about that night, when they tore my family apart. Fren is looking at me with curiosity, though, and I know he will not let me leave until I have explained my outburst. "My grandfather used to call me his _little fox_-because of the hair, you know, and the way I used to sneak around. He said I was clever, like a fox, and that I would grow up to be like them, too. My family used to call me the _fox queen_, because, you know, of my name."

"Oh...is your grandfather…?" he doesn't finish the question, for which I am grateful, because I'm not sure I can handle hearing the word _dead _right now. Instead, I just nod, and Fren gives me a pitying look. "Peacekeepers?" he asks, and I nod again.

"They just came one night...they said my father was a traitor...they dragged my mother and my aunt and my grandfather out...they made me watch...I..._I can still remember it in my dreams_." I tell him, my voice going raspy as I choke out the words. I have not spoken of that night in years, and it pains me even now to mention it.

"My sister" Fren begins suddenly, and I blink, confused. "was named Dien-she was four years older than me, and braver as well. We lived close to the fence, and because of that, we were given permission to sometimes kill and cook animals in the woods nearby. It was my sister who would go get the animals; she was the one who was brave enough to venture beyond the fence when I would not. She dreamt of seeing the world beyond-not just in the woods that wrapped around us, but beyond the Districts altogether. She wanted to explore and have adventures-and then she got Reaped."

"I remember," I whisper quietly, recalling the tough look on Dien's face when her name was called, the way she moved without even so much as a whimper or a look of fear. She had almost seemed interested, fascinated by what would come as a Tribute. She had died all the same, though, just like the rest of the Tributes.

"My mother fell apart when they called my sister's name. She loved my sister more than anything-if she could have, I think my mother might have volunteered herself, but it doesn't make a difference. She just..._gave up _when they called my sister towards the stage, and I don't think my mother will ever recover. She doesn't speak or acknowledge anyone, not me, not my father, not even her own sister."

"I…" I don't understand why he is telling me these things, about his sister and his mother; why is he telling me information that I can use against him later in the Games? I don't understand why he is telling me this, but Fren only continues speaking.

"I'm so _angry _at them for taking away my sister!" His hands curl into fists, pulling in tightly and then unfurling like leaves in the springtime. "I hate the Capitol for killing my sister and for making my mother fall apart like that. I..._I hate them so much_. They took everything away from me-from you. We're going to die, and it doesn't even matter, does it, Gina? We're going to die, but why's it matter, because they've already taken everything away that they can-and I _hate them_."

We sit in silence as I repeat Fren's words in my head, more than a little scared. At home, amongst my siblings and even before, we did not speak against the Capitol or the Peacekeepers. It isn't that I didn't hate them-I honestly did-but to hear Fren speak out so vocally about those that control our entire lives. I know now that he has no intention of coming out of the Games alive, and that scares me.

Lights flashes in our eyes, bright light that doesn't seem like it could have come from the sun it is so bright. I flinch, but almost as quickly as it came, the light disappears.

We continue on our way, as the train rattles towards the Capitol, passing by miles and miles of empty space. I stare in wonder-I haven't ever imagined there could be so much space anywhere, not when I was so used to my tiny house, the cramped spaces and narrow streets of District 5.

"What do you think, Fren? Do you think we could win? Do you think we even have...have a chance?" I ask the tall boy, staring out at the tall grass just beyond me reach, as the two of us shake and shift with the movement of the train.

"Do you want my honest opinion?" he asks with a slight smile, turning to look at me. "Like, my completely honest opinion?"

"Yes," I say in a heavy voice, meeting his brown eyes with me own amber. "Yes, of course I do. There's no point in starting all the lies just yet."

He only smiles at me comment, but Fren doesn't seem very amused at all. He looks at his hands, then back at me, clearly thinking about his answer as though it were the most important thing in the world. And in some cases, it might be.

There have been plenty enough Tributes who had died because they simply just lose the will to live anymore.

"No." he finally says shortly, but firmly. "I don't think we have a chance at all. I don't think we have even the slightest chance of getting out of here alive. I mean, Gina, we're District 5...and District 5, they just don't make it, you know? They don't have any chance-_we _don't have any chance."

He sighs, breathing heavily, and I can tell this was getting him worked up.

"We're not winners, Gina-we never have been and we never will be. I don't expect to make it out of the Games in anything other than a cardboard box." He looks away from me for a brief second, as though embarrassed for having shared such a thing.

"That-that's what I think," he said finally. "What about you, Miss Fox? What do you think our chances are?"

"Not too good, Fren...I think we're going to get slaughtered out there." My voice trembles, and I frown, frustrated that I can't seem to be able to keep my emotions in check. "I think we're going to die awful and painful and fast. I think we're going to go home in a couple of not so pretty boxes." My voice cracks, and I nearly laugh through tears that stung me cheeks. "But you know what, Fren? I'm going to try my damnedest to win. I'm going to die, I know, but I'm going to try, at least. I kind of feel like I have to, you know?"

"Yeah," he says in a whisper, looking out the window again, at the scenery which doesn't seem so pretty anymore-just deadly. Everything looks deadly now, even Fren. "Yeah, I know."

The train continues to rattle on its way to the Capitol, where the other Tributes and I will begin to prepare for our inevitable deaths.

I keep hoping the train will simply just never even make it into the Capitol. I consider the notion, for just a brief second, that the train might crash before we ever made it. I'd still die-but I could die human, at least.

"I'm going to die," Fren says just then, breaking the silence between us. "I'm going to die, we're all going to die. I'm not a fighter, anyone can see that. I'm going to die. Why do I have to die? Why me? I'm not a fighter! I'm not, I'm not!" He is growing frantic and wild, and I shift away from him, startled by his rising pitch.

"Don't say that!" I hiss at him, gripping Fren's arm tightly. "Don't say that, please Fren. If you give up now then you have _no _chance at all." I do not want to kill this boy before me, but I do not want to see him die, either. He is from the same District as me, very nearly the same thing as a family member, and I don't think he deserves to die. Not this innocent kid next to me. "Please don't give up now, Fren, please. Don't give up now, we haven't even started."

"My sister was the fighter in our family. She was the brave one-Dien was the tough one, the one who could hold her own and survive. Me? I can't do anything. I shake when snapping a chicken's neck or when slitting the throat of a pig. I can't kill people, not me. I'm not the fighter, I'm not. I can't hurt people, I can't kill them. My sister was the fighter, and now she's dead."

"Fren…" I whisper, unsure of how to reassure him, but before I can say anything, there is a clacking of heels on soft carpet; we both turn to see Crys coming up to us, a big smile on her face. She slows down as she spots us, waving cheerfully. Fren wipes away the tears from his cheeks and I rub at my own face, wishing it wasn't quite so red.

"We're about two hours out still," Crys says immediately when she stops just inches away, and I see the curls in her perfectly sculpted hair, the way her smile is tense and false. She is a porcelain doll, just as much a puppet as we are in these Games. The only difference is that Crys offered herself up to do this-Fren and I were picked against our wills.

"Okay." Fren says finally as Crys continues to smile at us, waiting for an answer from one of us. "What's going to happen when we get there?" His voice no longer trembles and his eyes are clear, all remnants of his earlier breakdown erased entirely. He is suddenly not the vulnerable young boy but a young man ready to follow orders.

_Watch out for him. There's something off about Fren. Don't trust him-don't trust anyone at all, but especially don't trust Fren. _

"Oh, just the basics, meeting your stylist and all that fun stuff, you know. If the two of you would just go to your compartments, though, and lay down until I call for you, then that would be lovely. After all, I'm sure you lovely little doves are simply exhausted after all this excitement, right?" Crys makes it sound like leaving is an option, but her eyes dare me to defy her.

I don't think I can ever sleep again, not after being called to my death in front of all of Panem, but I cannot argue with Crys, so instead, I take one last quick look at the grass outside, wishing I could just run off and be free. I wish I could just be like a rabbit, unaware of the problems outside of eating and surviving-I don't want to go the Games to be killed.

Instead, I follow Crys to my compartment without a word, like a sheep led to slaughter. Because that is what I am-a sheep, someone who follows and doesn't ask questions. I am a sheep, here only to entertain people like Crys and to die.


End file.
